There Are Four Lights
by Quex
Summary: The pre exile story of the Star Fox team: determination, luck, and four friends with something to prove. Multiple character viewpoints, everyone will get their turn. Next chapter coming soon... integrity problems.
1. Zero Chapter: Slippy's Story

**There Are Four Lights**

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_Disclaimer:_ "Star Fox" characters all belong to Nintendo. If you're reading this, you'd better know which characters those are. I snuck a few supporting characters in here, too, but they're just to fill in the plot holes. Nobody important. That all said, please enjoy the show...!

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"Happiness is just a word to me, and it might have meant a thing or two, if I'd have known the difference." **Yoko Kanno,** _Gotta Knock a Little Harder_

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**Chapter Zero: Slippy's Story**

I was eleven years old.

Eleven, and making the family rich. I worked in my father's workshop, actually more of a factory floating in space, staffed by him, me, and a few mechanic assistants. He designed stuff and showed it to me. I designed better stuff and made the plans work. Then I built the prototypes, and he sold them across the galaxy. It was business as usual.

Eleven, and famous in the business and design circles. Fighters, carriers, weaponry, not to mention tons of civilian stuff, like aircars and a series of construction equipment. My framed designs hung, (signed by my dad, of course), in the offices of military dignitaries and manufacturing corporations across three solar systems.

Eleven, and living on maybe four hours of sleep a night, if I was lucky. I'd been working since I was five, when Dad finally finished imparting everything he knew about mechanical, nuclear, and thermodynamic engineering to me, handed me a pencil and a T-square, and set me down in front of the drafting table. "Draw a rocket ship, Slippy," he said, "but be sure that it works. Make a good rocket ship to show daddy."

I made a rocket ship, all right, the U44 Longwing. It was the first ship to use solid-crystal laser weaponry and take advantage of different atmospheric levels to save fuel. It was a huge success, and it made the Toad family famous.

Dad signed it and sold it to Corneria. Then he gave me some more pencils, a bigger drafting table, and told me to do it again. So I did.

For six years, all he wanted from me were my designs.

And over the course of those same six years, I discovered that I wanted to fly the things I built.

I wanted to be a pilot.

From my earliest memories, I was certain that pilots had the most fun in the whole universe. They got to fly in the pictures I drew. They could go from world to world whenever they wanted, I thought, riding the stuff of my imagination. I determined that I had to be a pilot someday, and became more and more sure of that as six years passed.

But when I finally ran away from dad's workshop, I realize now, the plan was really just to escape. I had to get the hell away from my broken family. Mom had been on the frontier for years, and I'd long ago figured out that she wasn't coming back. Dad worked all the time, and I was expected to work, too. If designs weren't ready, or if I wanted to change them after a deadline arrived, I was told off just like any of the other workers in the shop. I had a job to do, did I forget? This place was a studio, damnit, not a preschool.

I'd never gone to school, and I wasn't sure what he meant when he said that, but it made me cry. I cried when I was seven, when I was eight, when I was nine, and when I was ten.

Then I turned eleven, and decided to stop.

I ran away from home.

I curled up inside my favorite design, a carrier called the Sigil-51, the day it was to be flown to Corneria. I knew exactly where I could hide away, where it would be warm, and where the effects of the life-support systems would still reach me. I wondered if dad would stop the ship from leaving when he didn't find me at my drafting table. Maybe he'd stop everything and come looking for me. Maybe he'd have the Cornerian soldiers, here to fly the Sigil, take the ship apart to find me.

But no soldiers were ever sent to find me in my little nest of wiring, and the ship left right on time.

I cried then, too, safely on my way to be what I wanted to be. My plan had succeeded; I wasn't sure why I was crying. Now, I realize, it was_ because _I succeeded so easily. No-one came looking. No-one must have cared.

I'm still not sure if running away was the stupidest or the bravest thing I'd ever done.

It was, however, the last stupid or brave thing I ever did alone.

_next chapter: Break Down the Door_


	2. Chapter 1: Break Down the Door

_Note: Character disclaimer is at the beginning of the Zero Chapter._

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"Gotta knock a little harder, gotta knock a little harder: break down the door." **Yoko Kanno, _Gotta Knock a Little Harder_**

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**Chapter 1: Break Down the Door**

Luckily, I couldn't have picked a better time for my escape. Corneria was taking on pilots of all species, preparing for their new exploratory fleet. Anti-Amphiboid sentiment was pretty much a thing of the past, and I didn't mind settling down at the capital base for a while.

At least, I wouldn't have, if I'd been a little more accustomed to general society. All my life, the only people I'd ever met were either other Amphs, raccoon mechies from Papetoon, or adult officers and company CEOs who came to tour the workshop. All business, all military. Everyday people were not a part of my repertoire, especially not soldiers.

A lot of the trainees I was placed with had started as soldiers, and they had a hard time adapting to the idea of exploratory work. Ribbing was standard, and I could have handled it if it stopped there, but ultimately they were too rough for me.

Somehow, I'd convinced the recruiters that I was sixteen; I don't think my fellow trainees were observant enough to question that lie, and I got the short end of the stick in every roughhousing situation that sprang up. I probably appeared in the medical wing four times in my first week alone, and I could feel folks getting suspicious. Even if I was an uncommon species on Corneria, some medic with prior Amph experience was bound to notice that I was too young for the military.

To make matters worse, I heard through fellow mechies in the hangar that dad was looking for me, using all the partnerships and inside connections he had in the industry. It wouldn't take long for him to find me in a state-sponsored pilot training initiative.

I bucked the program and went looking for a graduate who might be willing to train me privately.

The first five pilots I contacted all sounded like good tutors, and I must have sounded like a good student. Then I'd meet them, we'd talk, and all bets were off. Nobody would take on an eleven-year-old kid.

When candidate number five figured out I was a runaway, I only just narrowly escaped getting turned in to the local authorities. To make a long story short, my getaway involved me hiding in the facilities of a public park and thanking god I could hold my breath for so long.

By this time, I was just about out of potential teachers. With Corneria as eager as it was to put an exploratory armada into deep space, virtually every last pilot graduate was off-world, setting up outposts on Katina or being trained to go to the Frontier.

There was only one name left on my list: Fox McCloud.

McCloud was last on my list for two reasons. First, he'd been off the base for nearly two years. All the other choices were fresh graduates from the past semester, and I figured I'd have better luck convincing them to casually take on a private student.

Second, everything I heard about this guy freaked me out.

He'd been top of his class in practically everything, but he'd left the base on graduation day and never come back. That was really unusual. Some guys I talked to said top brass had covertly recruited him for a place in black-ops.

He was a Cornerian-born Vulpine by all accounts, but everyone said he acted almost like a wild animal, bloodthirsty and cold. A cadet told me he'd witnessed McCloud kill one of his classmates during combat training, then calmly request his next match with the body still on the mat. I didn't believe the story at first, but then I heard it from another guy. And another. It got scarier each time.

The worst I heard, though, came from the upper echelons of the brass I had access to. I was cleaning the officers' kitchen, scrubbing the coffeemaker in particular, when someone brought up the name in the adjacent sitting room.

"McCloud? The younger one, right? Fox?"

"Of course the younger one, you idiot, the rest of the family was killed, remember?"

"Yeah, Fox. I heard today that they're scrapping the ships we used to fly together… Whatever happened to that guy?"

"Insane," said a first lieutenant, sipping his coffee calmly.

"You serious?"

"Yeah, he finally lost it. A recluse, now, still living in the old family apartment," the lieutenant set down his cup and sighed, "They say Lt. Hare goes and checks on him every so often, just to see if he's offed himself yet. Poor bastard."

"I heard that, too," said a major, "they say the training here was the only thing keeping him in check. No outlet once he graduated, and he just snapped."

"He was good, though," a squadron captain said quietly.

"Yeah," the lieutenant agreed, studying his cup, "Damn good."

Other officers nodded.

Someone discreetly changed the subject, and I hurried to finish cleaning, lest they notice I'd been listening in.

It was that incident more than any of the others that pushed the name "Fox McCloud" far to the bottom of my list. I would have scratched the name out altogether, except that one thing continued to come up whenever I asked for information on McCloud: everyone agreed that he was "damn good."

Damn good or not, it certainly didn't help matters that he wouldn't answer his phone. I called him three times, but he never picked up. There was no answering system, either, which really _was_ odd in that day and age.

I knew that he lived on the ninth floor of an older apartment complex near the base. It had been built by the Cornerian military to house soldiers back in the last days of political hostilities between the planets of the Lylat system, when Corneria actually felt it needed a standing army. They'd sold it to a private landlord since then, but from what the rumors said, McCloud started paying rent to keep the apartment where his family had once lived, rather than relocate to new quarters.

I could have sent a letter, but I was running out of time by this point. I wanted to do everything I could to avoid being caught and dragged back to Dad's workshop in defeat, still a mechie, still just a kid. I didn't think I could survive the "reception" I'd get if I went back. I didn't have the extra money it would take to keep supporting myself on Corneria, either. At least, not if I wanted to reserve a substantial amount to offer in exchange for training.

I decided that I had to meet this McCloud right away and try one last time to apprentice myself to a real pilot.

I remember practicing what I would say as I rode the elevator up to the ninth floor, sticking to the least agitating words I could think of. The last thing I wanted was to rile this half-crazed legend. I kinda wished I'd brought someone with me, just incase he was even worse than anyone knew.

Not like I had any friends on this planet, though. Who would I have asked?

As I walked down the quiet corridor to apartment 924, I began hoping he wouldn't be home.

Most of the residents had something out in the hallway around their doors to make it look more welcoming: a plant, a hanging decoration for the season, or if they had kids, a short plastic tricycle or some other colorful toy might be sitting idle nearby.

Door 924 was blank and bare. The carpet in the hallway outside seemed relatively new, not a lot of traffic in or out, but it was filthy. I paused for a few seconds to rehearse my lines, steeled myself, and reached up a hand to knock just below the dingy yellow letters that marked the door.

I stopped just short. There were some scratches in the wood where my hand had been about to land that I hadn't noticed before. They were more like deep gouges, really. The varnish was scratched off, and the wood was splintered in several places close together, as though from multiple impacts. It was about head-height for the average Cornerian.

I looked down at the doorknob. The wood around the keyplate had been ground down until it too was splintered and ragged. The brass knob itself was so scuffed and dented that looked like it had been attacked with a chisel.

I swiftly turned and went back down the hall the way I had come. Slippy, do you really have to go this far? Surely you can go back to the program at the base and lay low… dad will have to give up looking for you soon. Just get through training like the rest of them, no need to deal with crazy people.

I pulled up the collar of my coat as I withdrew, partly to stop the chills running up and down my back, and partly to hide my face. I'd given up on my last chance, and I was ashamed.

Sure, I could go back to the program at the base, I told myself, but I knew that I couldn't hide there forever. I'd already raised enough suspicion about myself when I left the first time around, and at least five graduated pilots now knew that I was too young to be there. Between the administration and my own ineptitude, I'd already given myself away enough for dad to find me easily. He wanted his precious designer back, and I just knew that I was going to be dragged home to the workshop one way or another.

Mission failed, and that was the end of it.

With my eyes fixed on the floor as I retreated to the elevator, I didn't notice the figure in front of me until I bumped into him.

"Ah, sorry," came a voice from behind the overstuffed grocery bag, "you okay?"

I looked up to the talking brown bag in a stupor.

My new acquaintance was roughly five and a half feet tall and apparently couldn't see any better than I could, with a large bag from City Grocery held in both arms and blocking his face. I could only see his orange-brown ears sticking up over the top; standard Cornerian ears, I guessed, or maybe Feline. He was wearing a long grey coat that draped down his back and obscured everything, else I would have tried to figure out his species from the tail.

"Yeah, sorry," I answered, shuffling out of the way, "wasn't looking where I was going."

"Me neither," said the voice with an apologetic laugh, "mind grabbing the coffee for me? It fell out," he gestured with his boot to a package of grounds next to us on the floor, "I only live a few doors down."

"Uh, sure."

I scooped it up and followed him down the hall, away from the elevator, back towards room 924. I was still a little nervous, but I didn't want to be rude to anyone. This seemed like standard behavior in an apartment complex, anyway. The guy probably though I was some resident's kid.

"So where'd you come from?"

"Huh? Oh, I came looking for someone," I said, "I don't live here."

"Didn't think so," he said, "I know all the kids on this floor, at least. Who are you looking for?"

"I'm trying to get some training… in, in a particular field, and my peers recommended a guy who lives here."

I tried to come up alongside him, but he walked too fast for my short legs. I couldn't blame him, the grocery bag looked pretty heavy, and I was sure he was eager to put it down.

From the back, I could see that he wasn't much older than I was, but I still hadn't gotten a glimpse of his face. He had close-cropped white hair atop that strange orange fur. I remember thinking it was odd for someone so young to have white hair already, but then I realized that Cornerians, with all their breeds and colors, could have any kind of hair under the sun. And anyway, dogs probably thought it was weird that Amphs were all bald.

"Training, huh? You going to an academy around here?"

"No… no, I actually never went to school. I was taught at work. I'm… well, an industrial designer and mechanic, really."

"Wow, at your age?" he said, "That's great. Wish I had a real job like that," and he laughed again.

I decided that I liked that laugh. It was honest.

We suddenly stopped in front of an apartment door.

"Here we go. Sorry, I never got your name," he said, shifting the weight of the bag as he turned to me. I think he was trying to get one arm free so he could shake my hand, but it wasn't any good.

"I'm Slippy. Slippy Toad," I said, smiling for the first time in what seemed like a week. Now that I think about it, that might have been the first real smile of my life. He was a nice guy, and for the past minute he'd afforded me time to forget about all the trouble I was in.

But as I answered, he wriggled out of his left boot and brought up his footpaw to the doorknob; I saw he had the key between his first two toes. He deftly maneuvered it into the lock, turned it, and then turned the knob, all with his foot. Then, without any effort at all, it seemed, he spun around and knocked the door open with a high kick from his right boot.

"Nice to meet you, Slippy…"

And as the door opened into the apartment, I saw the numbers "924" swing away into the darkness. I looked up to find the bag gone and a Vulpine face smiling at me politely, one orange-furred hand held out to shake mine.

"…my name's Fox McCloud."

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**next chapter: Fox**


	3. Chapter 2: Fox

_Character disclaimer is at the beginning of the Zero Chapter.

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Hey, thanks to everybody who's reviewed this story! I really appreciate the comments – they're my driving force to keep going. I hope to keep updating with at least one chapter a week, more frequently when time permits. Please keep checking back!

And now, here's something to read.

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"All I ever wanted was a chance to catch my breath; to see the world go by and lay my ghosts to rest." **Dirty Vegas, _Ghosts

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**Chapter 2: Fox**

"You… you're Fox McCloud?"

"Yeah."

I felt my heart drop into my stomach. I couldn't say anything, couldn't move. I just kind of stood there helplessly.

It seemed impossible to reconcile the two images in my head. Before me stood a Vulpine, yes, and I had the right address… but surely, there had to be some mistake. He was only maybe 15 or 16 years old, and he was the nicest guy I'd met on the planet so far. This friendly kid was the terrifying McCloud from the stories? He just couldn't be.

"You seem a little surprised," Fox said, leaning down a bit to get a better look at me. I instinctively scooted backwards a few inches.

"It's just… j-j-just that, you're the one I was here t-t-to talk to," I managed. I had the bad habit of stuttering when I got nervous.

Fox blinked.

"Well, that's good. You wanna come inside and sit down?"

"NO, no, I'm f-f-fine," I glanced over his shoulder into the dark apartment, "c-c-can we just talk in the hall?"

He raised one eyebrow.

I realized right about then that I was definitely the more suspicious character of the two of us. I silently prayed that I wouldn't trigger him do anything crazy by setting such a good precedent.

"In the hall?" Fox said, looking around, "Sure, I guess. What did you want to talk about?"

"I, it's that… w-w-well…"

I had no idea where to begin. Should I ask about the rumors first, or explain my situation? I was still holding the bag of coffee nervously and crunching it around in my hands as I searched for a place to start explaining myself.

This simply wasn't going to work, I decided, not this way.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, eyes down, carefully focusing on the pattern in the carpet. Calm down, Slippy. This is your last chance. Try to make the most of it.

But no matter how I tried, I couldn't stop shaking. It was more than just meeting McCloud – more than rumors and last chances – it was all of this, the whole situation, running away to a different system, desperately trying to achieve a dream that was farther away than I could have imagined when I struck out, and now being hunted by my father. It was all starting to bear down on me at last. I was cornered, now, I realized – if McCloud wouldn't take me on, I could only give up.

A hand settled on my shoulder. I looked up to see Fox's reassuring smile, kind and unassuming, as he looked at me with concern.

"Calm down, Slippy," he said, echoing the words in my own mind, "Whatever the problem is, everything's gonna be fine. Come inside and sit down; I promise I don't bite."

That did it. I'm not sure how, but in those few seconds, Fox gave me confidence like I'd never felt before. It was something in his voice; something in his face. I started trusting him then and there – it's been that way ever since.

I nodded to Fox and straightened myself up.

Letting go of my shoulder, he hopped back into his boot and picked up the bag of groceries from it's place on the hallway floor. He shuffled into the apartment and I followed him.

The door closed behind us.

The lights flicked on, and I was further relieved to see that we were in a _normal_ apartment. There was a plain TV, a couch, and a few chairs, a small table on a blue-tiled section of the main room's floor, and a little kitchen off to the right of the doorway. I'm not sure what I'd been expecting, maybe a dungeon or something, but this definitely was better than the vision in my head.

"Have a seat," Fox said, nodding towards the main room, "just chill out for a minute. I'll set up some coffee and put things away, and then we can talk about whatever you'd like."

I nodded politely.

Fox vanished into the kitchen. His coat was off now, and I could see his tail swish around the corner as he disappeared from sight. It was the same bright orange-brown color as the rest of him, and it sort of curled around in the air, trailing his motions. Different from Cornerian tails, I thought.

I took a seat at the small table and tried to refocus my mind by making a list of everything relevant to the situation.

First off, I was now sitting in Fox McCloud's apartment. He wasn't violent, but he had a unique way of opening the door.

Secondly, he was a lot younger than I'd imagined. That threw me off a little, and I wasn't sure if it would help matters or make them worse. If we were closer in age, maybe he'd understand me a little better? Then again, maybe he wouldn't be as willing to risk getting in trouble, like the other younger grads I had spoken to…

"D-do, do you live alone, here?" I asked, trying to make small talk.

"Technically," he said, speaking from around the corner, "although I'm not home much. Just use this place for the couch and the kitchen, really. Peppy spends more time here than I do."

"Peppy?"

"Friend of mine. Stick around long enough and you'll see him," Fox replied.

I made a mental note of the name – it sounded odd, and I wondered what species Peppy might be. (Then again, "Slippy" wasn't exactly a standard moniker either.)

"You… you seem awfully young," I tried again. I was feeling a little bolder now, and my curiosity about those rumors drove me to ask more questions.

"Heh, sure seems that way sometimes. I feel pretty old, though. How old are you?"

"Eleven years, Lylatian standard time," I answered. I'd already made up my mind not to lie to Fox, even if I did risk him turning me down for being a child.

"Cool. Take my luck, and make it another eleven."

I couldn't help but smile; it was a traditional response on many of the planets in the Key System. Both the Vulpinian and Amphiboid homeworlds circled the center star there. So did Dad's workshop.

Dishes clinked in the kitchen and the paper bag rustled.

"So… uh," I stalled, discovering that I wasn't very good at making conversation. Damn that isolated workshop and my lack of social skills.

"Hmm?"

"Why do you open the door with your feet?" I blurted out, not thinking long enough before I let it slip.

"That's… well, lemme sit down before I try to explain that one, okay?" Fox chuckled, "I'll admit, it's kinda weird. Hope I didn't freak you out."

"Oh, no," I lied, "just curious."

Fox had the sink running, and I could just catch the smell of coffee drifting into the room. I was waiting to pitch my request for training, but the longer I waited, the harder it seemed to get.

Hell, might as well just go for it. I didn't want to wait until we were face-to-face across the table. I cleared my throat and centered myself in the chair.

"Alright, listen. I'm here because I need a tutor."

That got a laugh out of Fox. "A tutor in what, mopping? Washing blackboards?"

I didn't understand what he meant, but I was so focused on what I had to say that I didn't give it any serious thought.

"For pilot training," I said, locking my eyes on the false wood-grain pattern in the tabletop, "I want to learn to fly fighter craft."

I waited for a few seconds. There was no response.

I looked up to see Fox leaning out of the kitchen and staring at me blankly. His smile was gone. He seemed very serious all of a sudden, as though thinking about something he'd rather not be thinking about.

I wasn't sure if I'd said something wrong, but I couldn't think of any way to back down now. I just watched him, trying to look as mature and steady as I could. No doubt he was pondering the age question.

He suddenly vanished into the kitchen again, then returned with a teapot full of coffee and two mismatched cups. He sat down in the chair directly opposite me, still wordless.

I squirmed a little.

He poured a cup for me and scooted it across the table. I took a sip and examined the side of the cup while he poured a second shot for himself: it said "persimmons" on it.

Fox leaned back against the chair, cup held loosely in one hand.

"Why did you come to me?" he asked, quietly.

"Eh? Ah, you… well," the question had caught me a little off guard, "I asked people around the base about program graduates in the Corneria City area, and your name came up."

"Really," Fox muttered, almost to himself. He glanced out the window on the far wall behind me, eyes settling on the cityscape outside. I noticed that his eyes were the sort of bright green that people always had on TV.

…then I realized that I was staring, and quickly took a swig of my coffee to hide the fact.

I'd had coffee before, but never black. It was actually pretty good. I took a few more sips and let Fox take his time to think, whatever he was thinking about. I wasn't worried about his mental state anymore, but I didn't want to annoy him into refusing me.

Fox finally set his cup down and crossed his arms with a huff.

"Listen, kid… Slippy," Fox began, "I've been out of the cockpit for a while now. It's probably best for you to get someone from a newer class."

"I've tried, it's no good. Everyone's going to the frontier."

"Well, yeah… there're a few guys around here, though. I mean… you just gotta keep asking around, and-…"

"Four. There are exactly four guys around here. And a girl; she's the fifth. I've talked to all of them."

Fox blinked.

"Oh."

"They won't train me because I'm eleven years old."

"I see."

"And you're the only other graduate in the area."

Fox rubbed his nose in thought, then tried again.

"Back up a second. You're eleven years old."

"Yes."

"Why do you want to fly fighter craft?"

"It's my dream. I design and build them, and now I want to fly them."

Fox scratched his head. I was expecting him to challenge my claim about being a designer and mechie, but strangely enough, he didn't. He must have believed me from the start.

"Well, damn," he said, crossing his arms, "I thought I'd taken care of this."

We both sat there for a few seconds. Fox didn't give any indication that he was about to explain himself.

"…what do you mean by that?" I ventured.

Fox suddenly leaned forward and gave me a wry grin.

"Bet you heard some interesting things about me at the base."

I put my coffee down to keep from right-out dropping it. Fox knew about his scary reputation? In the back of my mind, a few lingering fears started to crop up again.

"Uh… yes, actually. They weren't very kind."

"Lemme hear it," Fox said, still grinning. He _did_ look a little crazy when he did that…

"Well, ah," I searched for the words to put things delicately, but they just didn't come. There isn't a very direct way of telling somebody he's purported to be insane without paraphrasing the life out of it.

"They all think you're a psychopath," I said, finally.

"Thought so," Fox said, leaning back again and taking a drink, "Anything more specific than that?"

"There's some confusion over where you live, now," I answered, "someone said you'd been recruited by Cornerian black-ops when you graduated, and that you're stationed somewhere in the Key system as a spy. A few officers said you were a recluse here, in your family's apartment."

"There is no Cornerian black-ops section anymore," Fox said with a shrug, "and I guess I am kind of a hermit, huh?"

"…they also said that you killed somebody once in training, and didn't even bat an eye."

"Wow, that one's still going around, huh?"

"It _is _just a rumor, right?"

There was brief pause as we looked at each other.

Fox suddenly narrowed his eyes and started to smile, slowly, showing all his teeth.

I froze. Surely he didn't mean…. I was sure once I'd started talking to him that this last rumor would be the most ridiculous of them all.

I inched backwards in my chair uncomfortably and shot a look at the door, ready to run if I had to.

Fox just started laughing – normally, not manically – and tapped the bottom of his cup on the table a few times.

"Ah, that was great. Sorry to freak you out again," he said, "I thought that might have been the line that had you worried. Now I feel kinda bad."

"So it _IS_ a rumor?" I fought down the squeak in my voice, "right?"

Fox sighed and looked at me apologetically.

"The truth is, Slippy, I started most of those rumors myself, or just let 'em go once other people started them. I never killed anybody, I don't have a torture chamber in my apartment, I'm not in the mafia, or whatever the hell else people have come up with in the past two years. None of it's true," he said, and then with a smile, "and I'd like to think I'm mostly sane."

Started these rumors himself? It didn't make any sense.

"But now everyone thinks you're a terrible person! They're downright frightened of you! Why the hell would you do that?"

"Why, do you suppose?" Fox calmly finished his coffee. He wasn't looking at me now.

And then it hit me. As I looked around the simple apartment, tucked away high on the ninth floor, and considered what I'd heard, everything fell into place. A valedictorian pilot missing from the base for two years was strange enough to get some attention from former classmates and curious brass. Fox must have been trying to avoid all that by throwing up barriers. Rumors of violence and madness were definitely effective in that vein. But why make such a monster out of himself to avoid other pilots and soldiers?

"You're deliberately warding people off," I said, staring at him.

Fox nodded.

"That still doesn't answer _why_, though," I frowned, setting down my cup with a clunk, "you shouldn't be hiding from people."

"Hey, I'm not hiding from anybody," Fox huffed, matching my frown, "just staying clear of a situation that I don't approve of. It's actually pretty complicated and-..."

"It's not complicated at all," I fired back, "you're avoiding something by letting people believe lies."

I was more than a little angry at the injustice of people thinking Fox could be anything other than the honest, open guy I was sitting here talking to. It didn't seem fair that everyone said such horrible things about him, even if it was something Fox had started himself.

I might not have met many people beyond the workshop in my life, but I could tell that Fox was a rare sort of person – the sort of person that the world couldn't afford to be without.

"You don't understand, kid," Fox stood up and took his cup to the kitchen, "and it's too complex to interest you."

"You're talking to someone who calculates all the statistics of stress fractures in an eight-hundred and four component custom-built jet engine while he's waiting for the microwave to ring. _Nothing_ is 'too complex' – start explaining."

"For god's sake, no. Just drop it, will you?"

Fox was annoyed with me now, but I didn't care.

"Everyone I talked to, no matter what else they told me, said that you were a great pilot," I muttered, "and the way they said it, I know that's not just a rumor."

He didn't say anything.

"That's why I want to learn from you. I won't accept training from anyone else."

Two dishes clinked together, but Fox stayed quiet and hidden around the corner.

I settled back in my chair and finished my coffee. I'd had my say, and I might have just lost my chance, but it was worth it. Somebody was going to have to push Fox back into the mainstream; back onto the base. If there was nobody else close enough to him to do it, I decided, I was going to do it myself.

Our uneasy silence was cut short by a knock at the door.

_

* * *

next chapter: Peppy_


	4. Chapter 3: Peppy

_Character disclaimer is at the beginning of the Zero Chapter.

* * *

_

Whew, back again… these chapters just keep getting longer. Don't fret, though; we're almost done with all the exposition.

Thanks to everyone who takes the time to comment; you keep me honor-bound to finish this fic. : nod: A few folks asked about Falco; don't worry, he's coming up soon. (I think he gets a half chapter next time around...)

And now for something completely different:

* * *

_SPECIAL DISCLAIMER (UPDATED!)_

The term for Peppy's subspecies, "Pandoran," the related word "Pandora" used in reference to his home planet, and the concept of this species being naturally empathic, are _all entirely copyright to **Vixy Reinard**_ _pseudonym_, a talented author who wrote two famous Star Fox pieces roughly a decade ago. (She's on here somewhere under the name "Ganesh"; see if you can find her!) She recently contacted me (Hi!) and graciously gave me permission to use the Pandoran concept and terminology.

That said, here we go again…

* * *

"When an early autumn walks the land and chills the breeze, and touches with her hand the summer trees, perhaps you'll understand what memories I own."** Ella Fitzgerald, _Early Autumn

* * *

_**

**Chapter 3: Peppy**

The sunset skimmed the ground with orange rays and cool grey shadows. They pointed me westward, away from the base. All the trees along the avenues of the downtown area glowed gold with the light and the season.

The warm air that circulated between the tall buildings of Corneria City was dry and gentle. It felt good on my fur; a familiar, comforting feeling, but it couldn't do a damn thing for my heart.

We were just coming into the first days of autumn. These were the most beautiful days of the year, I used to think. The sort of days when it was understandable for pilots to skip duty and go flying for the fun of it; hunting the thick fall storm clouds that littered the sky, following the sun as far afield as they dared.

In my younger years, I had delighted in this season like no other. No disciplinary threat could hold me back in the fall when the sun was low in the west and the trees started to change.

I was especially fond of flying over the orchards north of the city limits. I would stoke my radar to be sure the area was clear, then open up the throttle of my old two-engine Aleter and tilt the axis until I was flying inverted, the orchard over my head and the sky under my feet. The colors of a thousand different trees would blur together in waves like the surface of the sun, filling my vision all around as though the ship wasn't there at all.

I would take my hands off the control yoke and let myself be hypnotized for those few precious seconds.

Maybe this was the magic my people believed in – maybe there _was_ something secret to the world, after all, I would wonder to myself.

* * *

I can still remember the way it felt to half-believe in the metaphysical, and to be ashamed of it. 

I became the annoyance of every superior officer, readily agreeing to my duties one minute and vanishing the next. I had cases of euphony, the empathy sickness specific to my breed, at the worst possible times. I was useless when it happened; I always had to sit somewhere quiet and wait for it to go away.

Our commanders didn't understand. I didn't really expect them to, I suppose. They took my fits as excuses to stay out of the cockpit, and they made sure I regretted each time I tried "pulling that stupid trick."

I'll admit, I was a little reluctant to begin my daily duties, maybe. Maybe a little slow. Definitely shy. I didn't have many friends, and I didn't fit in too well with society in general.

I wasn't what they considered an average soldier. I could fight, but I never seemed to have the heart to defend myself. I could fly, but I stayed tightly in the training formations, and never dared to take point.

It was generally understood that I was a coward.

And when I failed at anything, my drill masters and commanding officers swore up and down that a Lag – and a Pandoran, no less – had no place flying defenses for Corneria. "Nothing between the ears," they said. "Druid," and "Primitive," too.

Those were the higher days of canine ethnocentrism. We all had to deal with it, I told myself. The discrimination, the rough gestures – it was a part of being non-Lylatian. I never thought I'd let it get to me, but it did, really. It took me years to realize how bitter the foolish words of inconsiderate people had made me.

Thankfully, James McCloud was always there.

He was from my home system, Key. A non-Lylatian, but he had the respect of every dog on the base, nevertheless. Maybe it was because he was canine to some extent. Maybe it was just his personality.

Either way, I was proud to be his friend.

"There's nothing wrong with you, Pep," he'd tell me after fights with our commanders, "It's part of our generation, and theirs. The systems are coming closer together now than ever before, and there's bound to be a couple of fights like this as we all get used to one another. It'll all be different in a few years."

"You say that so easily," I'd laugh.

"Because I believe it," he'd reply.

I could tell by his voice that he meant it.

I wasn't afraid to be myself in front of James. He took my Pandoran intuition seriously during training, no questions asked. Even when my senses turned out to be wrong, he never doubted me. I never had problems with euphony around him, either. I could focus.

And he, in turn, confided in me. James was probably the most frenetic person in the world, but you would never have known it from the calm exterior he showed everyone.

I learned all his troubles and kept them secret.

He was eager to be a soldier, but dreaded the uncertainty that lay in conflicts ahead. Would Corneria really complete a galactic federation, or would there be a war to fight? We had no idea in those days. Expect the worst, hope for the best, live for the moment; it was the motto of our entire generation.

James had difficulty talking to pretty girls. Whenever we all went out drinking, he'd stick close by so I could guide him through introductions, should a young lady take interest.

I couldn't help but laugh whenever he froze up, staring at some lovely woman across the room, and tugged on my sleeve for something to say. Maybe it was odd for me to be the one playing the go-between when James was usually so much more sociable, but it definitely helped my confidence.

Injustices, no matter how petty, no matter who they happened to, angered him like nothing else. I'd find him steamed about something unfair, and we'd spend hours in philosophical discussion on whether or not the universe could really be more good than bad.

We always agreed it had to be at least 51 percent good.

However closely we had been friends during our cadet years, we were all the more so when graduation came around.

James came to my quarters right after the ceremony, before I even had a chance to change out of dress uniform.

"Peppy, I'm applying to start a team. I want you to be my second-in-command."

"W-what?" I was stunned. "When are you applying-…"

"Tonight. Right now."

James had scored high in our class; he had the privilege of a few years sabbatical before he was expected to fly in the force. Then again, it _was_ James, after all. Never before had a pilot been so dedicated to his calling.

Damned if I was going to let him go it alone…

We went to General Asher's office that night, and were officially recognized as the "Star Fox" team the next day. I never did figure out where James got that name from; probably never will.

A two-man team wasn't in keeping with Corneria's standards, however, and we were given one week to find a third pilot. It didn't take James long to track down an old acquaintance from our home star system who had finished training on Papetoon.

Pigma Dengar was his name. He had already been working as a mercenary pilot for a few years, doing "delivery work for hire," as he put it. We all knew that meant "smuggling," but James trusted the guy, so I put my doubts behind me.

It was the biggest mistake of my life.

* * *

One autumn, I showed James how to fly over the orchard. Pigma wasn't very fond of practice; we left him behind and went out to practice beyond our designated airspace, where no-one could reprimand us for clandestine maneuvers. 

Flying inverted was a dangerous exercise in those days. The standard issue Aleter craft was the only ship that could do it in-atmosphere, and few pilots saw the need to attempt it, anyway. When I told James I knew how to hold a position of inversion, he was eager to learn. We practiced a few times together, and then James decided to be a smartass – or maybe it was a mistake? – and threw his axle too far past ninety.

That was the first barrel roll ever performed in the Cornerian military. We both took up the technique and practiced the hell out of it whenever and wherever we could, scaring brass and shaking up the formations of teams that flew with us. Pigma figured it out too, eventually.

The secret of flying over the orchard, however, remained a secret between James and myself for quite some time. James only ever showed it to one other person, in fact; Vixenne Reynard, who became Vixenne McCloud in short order.

"Vixy," we called her. She worked at the base, assisting the metacommunications operator while finishing graduate classes at Corneria City University. She was brilliant and beautiful, and James was completely smitten with her.

I was fortunate to be present the first time they met. Sergeant Pepper, a former commander of our cadet class and a good friend, introduced them to each other in the hall as though by accident. Personally, I think he was waiting for a chance to match them up. Pepper was a good fellow like that.

"Captain McCloud, this is Vixenne Reynard. Ms. Reynard, Captain James McCloud."

And just like some old movie, their eyes locked and that was that. Vixy finally smiled and looked away shyly. (I had to kick James to break his stare.)

You could tell Pepper was proud of himself for getting the two together; his tail wagged for the rest of the day.

To make a short story even shorter, I was the best man at the wedding. They were engaged and married in "less time than the moon takes to rise," to pardon the colloquialism. They'd met in autumn; it was still autumn when we all left the chapel.

He thanked me at the reception.

I asked him why.

"I proposed to Vixy over the orchard," he explained, "upside-down, the way you showed me."

"Christ, James, you took her up in an Aleter? It's a one-man craft!"

"Yeah, had her sitting on my lap the whole time," and he smiled that mischievous smile that I can still see, sometimes, when I think hard about it.

"But wasn't she frightened?"

"Hell, no. She loved every minute of it!" and then, in a mock whisper, "I'll tell you, Pep, she's good. Think I should have her lead the team?"

I had to laugh at that.

James and Vixy were indeed quite a pair – anyone could have seen it in the way they spoke to one another; the way they walked together; even in the way they argued with each other. Neither could best the other in spirit or determination, and every fight ended with mutual forgiveness.

They would be happy for the rest of their lives, I thought then.

I had been so certain of it.

* * *

I suddenly had to sit down. I'd reached the park between the base and Fox's apartment, and thankfully there were benches. I settled onto one and tried to refocus. 

The autumn wasn't beautiful for me; not anymore. This wasn't the happy season that it had once been. I was plagued with memories – formed so long ago, but so omnipresent in my own mind – that weren't fit for recalling.

* * *

It had been a bitterly cold autumn morning when a black plume of smoke rose up through the still, silent air. It was coming from the apartment complex where Cornerian soldiers with families were housed – where James and Vixy lived. 

We could see it from the observation tower on the fifth floor of the base, but we were too far away to have heard the blast.

James swore that he'd heard it, regardless. I think he felt it, too.

He knew Vixy was dead.

It was a bomb. Someone had set it up to explode when the ignition of the McCloud family's car was turned on. Investigators later determined that it was some sort of an indiscriminate attempt to kill Cornerian soldiers, those days being the height of hostilities with the last outer planets.

They never identified any suspects. James had a suspect of his own, but he never found any evidence to give to the police. He told me who he thought it was, and even I have to admit I found it a little far fetched at the time.

I expect he told Fox, too.

Fox McCloud, born James Fox McCloud, Junior, was only three years old then. He'd been far enough away from the blast to survive, at least. Emergency crews found him curled up in the apartment stairwell, confused and calling for his mother. The explosion had rendered him temporarily deaf, and he'd been struck across the arms and face by shrapnel.

The doctors decided from the injuries that he had been close enough to see everything.

I sat with James in the hospital all that day and night. It was all I could do to just sit there, quiet and helpless, while my leader grieved for his wife and anxiously awaited news of his son.

Surely, this would be the worst day of all of our lives, I thought. Please, whatever god might be up there, don't let anything worse than this ever occur…

Towards the end of the evening, Fox was finally released from care.

A nurse brought him out to where we sat. He looked pitiful; I remember feeling a powerful, generalized shame about myself and my world, that a child should ever have to wear so many bandages.

James picked him up and held him tightly.

I knew then that James would be alright. He had his son to look after, and he was far too strong to give up when someone was counting on him. It would be difficult, but not impossible.

* * *

It was another Autumn, five years later, that saw the proud Star Fox team take off for an unusual recon mission past Sector Z. We were glad to have our first serious run in months; tired of all the drilling and training. James was determined to take every mission they would give us, no matter the risk. 

This one was supposed to be simple.

Our three ships broke though the outer limits of the Cornerian atmosphere, together for what would ultimately be the last mission of the Star Fox team. We had been ordered to take remote readings of activity on the surface of Venom, a massive planet that orbited at the exact apogee of Corneria.

Venom was the last bastion of anti-federation sentiment in the Lylat system, but a woefully underdeveloped place. A sudden increase in imports of high-end mechanics put Cornerian intelligence on alert. They wanted to know what was going on at local latitude 43, longitude 81, and they needed a few ships to serve as temporary satellites. Our small, three-man team was the perfect size for the job.

We would take a few shots of the surface, sweep the radio a few times, and be on our way back.

Or so we thought.

* * *

Pigma had done his homework. He figured anyone who could afford to bring millions of dollars worth of manufacturing equipment to a planet like Venom would pay a good price to keep his operations safe from Cornerian eyes. He was motivated by money, after all, and Corneria didn't pay its pilots very much. 

Neither James nor I saw it coming.

As soon as we had set orbit high above the surface of Venom, he fired a single shell of Nova-class ordnance at close range. The resulting EMP blast wiped out our weapons and navigation immediately. Pigma had crippled us both.

I was too stunned to react. I heard Pigma's voice over the radio, laughing like a maniac. The hum of his weapons, charging and still active, built up in the background. He was going to start firing at any second.

James's voice cut through on a different frequency.

"Peppy, retreat! If your engines are active, pull back _now_!"

We both turned our ships in unison and made for open space, but Pigma's orders from his new employer apparently went beyond breaking up the mission.

Someone on Venom wanted us dead.

I realized immediately that we weren't up to speed. The secondary string of reactors that gave Aleters speed through deep space had been knocked out by the pulse, and it only took Pigma a few moments' chase to catch up with us.

I tried every evasive maneuver I knew, but without speed, it wasn't making much difference. Pigma struck us mercilessly, again and again, draining our ships of the energy we were throwing into the shields. If the shields gave out…

James yelled at him, cursed him; tried to keep his attention. One of his reactors was still online somehow, and it made him a little faster than me. He could dodge, and he could barrel roll to throw off laser fire. I couldn't.

Pigma wasn't distracted for long – he caught on to James's plan and decided to finish me off first. He was a good shot, the bastard, and with my wings set and my engines choking, I was an easy target.

He focused his fire directly onto the canopy of my cockpit – a "mercy shot," ironically, intended to kill a pilot without all the drama of life-support failure and asphyxiation. My shields thinned out and buckled before my eyes, the glow of the lasers superheating the track glass right above my head.

At that point, I took my hands off the controls and closed my eyes. It was over, I figured, and I was determined to die without showing the panic that I felt. The longer Pigma wasted time on me, the better chance James had of getting away.

But James didn't run.

I heard a sickening crash. My eyes snapped open to witness James's ship, moving backwards slowly with the remains of the force he'd used to ram Pigma. I could tell by the damage to Pigma's Aleter that James had been aiming for the cockpit.

He'd just barely missed.

I could hear Pigma swearing wildly over the radio as he fought with his damaged ship. The laser array sparked and failed; he couldn't fire at us anymore. He was on half-engines, and his left wing wasn't responding to any controls.

In his rage, Pigma yelled something incomprehensible at us, turned, and fled.

I couldn't have cared less; I was far more concerned about James.

I immediately knew he was in bad shape; his shield generator flickered with arcs of electricity, and it looked like both engines were out.

He was drifting.

I tried to raise him on the radio; no response.

"James, wake up!"

Nothing.

He started to drift faster. Lights on my console let me know that I was drifting, too.

Suddenly, I saw why Pigma had run.

In our desperate attempt to escape, we had ignored our headings and radar. Now we found ourselves at the very edge of a vast plain of space between Venom and Sector Z that twisted and warped around a supermassive anomaly. It was some sort of impossible error in physics, a thing so capable of destruction that whole moons and exterior asteroids had vanished into it. Cornerian scientists had no name for it, so they called it what it most resembled: a Black Hole.

And we were being pulled in.

"James, can you hear me? Get your engines back online; we need to get out of here!"

The answer, quiet and resigned, scared me like nothing else.

"I can't."

Our speed increased. I knew that at some point we would be pulled into contact with the actual "wash" of the Black Hole, a physical band of debris that would tear us apart. Once we were too close to the wash, there would be no turning back.

Weakened as we were, there wasn't much time left.

"For god's sake, James! Try! You have to try!"

"The controls are full black," he replied.

Full black. It meant there was no energy left in the ship's systems, even for the tiny LED lights on the cockpit console. It was only by some miracle that his radio was even functioning.

James was completely paralyzed, I realized.

He was going to die.

"Peppy, don't follow me. Get back to Corneria."

I couldn't answer. We were both drifting in faster by the second.

"Peppy, now. You have to turn around NOW."

"I don't want to," I muttered.

"I'm not asking you, this is an order. Turn around and get the hell out of here."

The intense nothingness of the heart of the Black Hole loomed ahead of us. No stars, no light, no reflections. It was perfectly black, perfectly empty. Small shards of space rock passed us by, accelerating towards their inevitable fate.

"James, don't make me…"

"Peppy," and for one last time, his voice was the strong, familiar voice that had lead me all my life, "Please don't give up now. Do you understand me?"

I didn't answer him, and I still regret it.

"Just… never give up."

The radio crackled into silence.

I turned my Aleter sharply and threw the engines into full, struggling away from that awful blackness behind me. It was harder than I thought it would be – I don't know what was pulling me back more forcefully, the gravity, or the thought of James quietly watching me leave.

Silver chips of ice and meteorite fragments slipped past my canopy, streaking through space like supersonic snow, falling into the void behind me. It wasn't long before tears clouded my vision and I couldn't see them anymore.

I turned back once more as soon as I was far enough away to afford a look. I scanned the area for hours, but I never saw James's ship again. He must have been destroyed while I had my back to him.

He died watching me run away.

It should have been me, I realized. It should have been my ship. I was the weaker of the two of us; I always had been. I was slated to die the moment Pigma pinned me down with his lasers.

James had a son to care for. He'd seen his share of troubles already – this shouldn't have happened to him.

And I let him die, watching me as I ran away.

I made a promise then and there, in that remote corner of Lylat, that I would make it up to him, as best as this world would allow a coward to redeem himself.

I would live for James' sake.

All the way back to Corneria, my failing ship slow and threatening to quit altogether, I repeated to myself all the sins that were mine, and that one chance I had to right them – I was dedicated to live for James.

It was my own secret; I would tell no-one.

* * *

I somehow made it back to Corneria, though I can't remember anything past the vicinity of Solar. I apparently pulled a terrifically bad landing and woke up the next day in the base hospital. 

General Asher himself was there to ask me questions. Lots of questions.

What information did you manage to collect? What happened to your wingman? Where is your captain?

I answered everything numbly. I was determined not to show weakness. Not anymore.

The General finally left me alone with my sorrows. I stared at the ceiling for hours, repeating over and over to myself that which I had to do.

I had to live for James.

* * *

I never had really come back from those dark days the way Fox had. He had youth to help him, I suppose, and his father's courage. 

And I… well, I had Fox.

How many days had it been since I'd slept in my own quarters, I wondered, or eaten at the mess hall? A week, at least.

We both knew it was the season. I would be able to stand on my own again once the last leaves fell and the heavy snows of winter dulled the pain in my soul. We'd been through this drill before; seven times, I noted.

This would be the eighth year since James had been killed.

Surely the memories of autumn wore heavily on Fox too, but he would never let me see it. He had grown up faster than was fair to a boy his age. I noticed him putting on a false smile for my sake more and more these days. He was sincere when he told me I could stay with him, I knew, but I felt childish for depending on him so much, and so obviously.

It was getting hard to keep track of who was looking after whom.

A leaf fluttered down and tapped my ear. Absently, I gazed up into the shadows of the leaves remaining overhead.

They'd all fall soon enough, I realized with a sigh. They'd get blown away, or pulled down in the cold storms that precede the snows. A few might hang on, stubbornly, but they'd all fall in the end.

What horrible wisdom.

I stood up and straightened my uniform jacket. My back creaked, and my neck was stiff. I was 36 years old, but I felt truly ancient in those days.

No more memories, I told myself. Put them away for the day, Peppy.

A faint roar overhead caught my attention. I looked up to see a formation of "explorers" draw their thick contrails through the chill October sky, spanning the gap between the concrete skyscrapers that framed my view. There were 20, perhaps 25 of them: a massive squadron by my standards.

They were returning to the base after a hard day of doing absolutely nothing.

I shook my head in disgust.

It wasn't the fault of the squadron, I knew. It wasn't the military, either. Politics and politics alone was to blame for the sad state of the Cornerian forces.

The Lylat system was ready for a long-awaited age of peace. Political tensions demanded mutual disarmament, and in a show of sincerity, the Cornerian superpower had already begun shedding its armor by the ton.

Planes were being decommissioned and disarmed, bombs dismantled and the metal sold to civilian scrap yards. The vast Cornerian navy was slowly being lifted, one ship at a time, from local waters, freighted away to Aquas and Zoness to explore the oceans there. Combat training was eliminated from every recruit's curriculum, replaced by lectures on diplomacy and cultural awareness. The defense budget was swept up and deposited wholly into the new Exploration Fleet, as they named it.

Look at us, Corneria was saying to the rest of the galaxy, see our non-threatening new social model of intergalactic exploration. We're coming in peace – let's all play nice.

How could they be so stupid? I asked myself every day, it seemed. Each new recruit who couldn't fire a blaster, each young officer who applied the "diplomatic model of conflict resolution" to a brawl in the barracks, each eager young face who diligently pressed his uniform and shined his shoes every night; whenever I saw them, I felt sick to my stomach.

If a single force decided to sucker-punch Corneria now, they'd all be dead in a heartbeat.

There were no soldiers anymore, I had come to realize, just explorers. Scientists and daydreamers in uniform. Throwing themselves trustingly into a world woven of purely wishful thinking.

I'd voiced this opinion to more than one higher officer, but all I got back from the top brass were expressions of zealous confidence in the "new-progressive exploratory model" and flak from politicians.

"You're just a warmonger," one senator replied to me on fancy white stationery, "and there'll be no place for you in the new age."

I wrote to him a second time, and told him in no uncertain terms that war was the last thing I wanted, but I'd seen too much of it to fall for the promise of easily-obtained peace.

He never wrote back.

I shook off the frustration and added it to the sad memories in the back of my mind. Another thing you can't help by thinking about, Peppy. Try not to worry about things you can't change.

I resumed my course down the sidewalk, towards the old McCloud family apartment. I had just dipped a little too deep into my troubled heart, and I was eager to meet Fox for dinner, per our custom, and forget about all the old worries.

"That's right," I said to myself, and my heart lightened ever so slightly, "No more thinking. Off to see Fox."

The sun was almost fully set, now, and the streetlights were beginning to blink on. It was harder to tell what season it was in the dark. Soon it was all mute, grey pavement in a black and white world, leading me around the city to a place that never seemed to change and the last real friend I had left.

I was a lot steadier by the time I reached the ninth floor. I wondered what dinner might be tonight, shuffling along the carpet that lead to Fox's poor, abused front door. I couldn't keep from smiling every time I saw it; he was still practicing that old move, eh?

As I approached, however, I picked up an unfamiliar voice from inside. Someone sounded angry.

No, not angry… and that quiet place in the back of my mind that felt the thoughts of others started to stir.

Someone was being persistent, and someone else was being downright obstinate. There was a definite difference.

Both of them were just a little scared, too. Scared of what, I wondered?

The yelling stopped.

I shook my head and smiled. Whatever was going on, I wasn't about to let on that I'd heard anything.

It was time for a traditional "hello," whether Fox was ready for it or not.

_next chapter: The Fox and The Hare  
_


End file.
